Her Benny: A Story of Street Life. Hocking Silas Kitto

now," said Joe, seeing their hesitation, "let's 'ave nowt but truth; out wi' it, an' it will be best in the end."

      "You tell 'im, Nell," said Benny, "'cause he'll b'lieve you."

      So Nelly, in her sweet pleading voice, told him all the story of Benny's wrong, and of her father's cruelty, and how even she herself had not escaped his anger.

      "And did he beat you, my purty?" said Joe, clenching his fist tightly at the same time.

      "Ay, Joe; but I dunna think he know'd what he were a-doin'."

      For a few moments the old man's face worked as if in pain. Then he muttered to himself, "Some'at must be done, an' no mistake; but what? Eh, what?" Then he looked at the children again. "Don't yer think you'd better go to hum again to-night?" he said; and he watched eagerly for the effect of his question. Nelly was the first to speak.

      "Oh, no," she said; "we should get it worse nor ever. Dad would a'most kill Benny." And the tears welled up into her eyes again.

      "I's not goin' to risk it," said Benny stoutly. "I's 'ad hidin's enough to last me a lifetime."

      "Ay, ay," said Joe. "I wonder, now – " And he looked reflectively into the fire.

      "What are 'e a-wonderin' on?" queried Benny.

      But Joe was silent. He had evidently got hold of some idea which he was trying to work out. At length he looked up and said,

      "Now, away with yer, an' come here again this ev'ning at six o'clock. D'ye hear?"

      "Ay, ay," was the response; and away they bounded, leaving Joe alone to his meditations.

      Joe remained some time after they were gone in one position, scratching his head most vigorously, and would doubtless have remained much longer had he not been disturbed by the men who had come to their work, and who set him at liberty from his watch until darkness should again come down upon the earth. Joe walked leisurely to his home as if burdened with some great thought, ate his morning meal in silence, and then went to bed, and lay tossing for full two hours ere he could find a wink of sleep.

      Joe Wrag had been for many years a complete enigma to a number of well-meaning people, who had become much interested in this silent and thoughtful man, and were anxious to know more about him than he cared to reveal. Several "town missionaries" had tried to make something out of him, but had utterly failed. He had never been known to enter a house of prayer, and whether in the matter of religious knowledge and belief he was a heathen or a Christian was an open question; and yet, notwithstanding this, he lived a life that in many respects was worthy of the imitation of many who made greater professions.

      Indeed, to be strictly accurate, Joe Wrag never made any profession whatever of any kind, and yet he was as honest as the day, and as true as steel. Honest, not because "honesty was the best policy." Nay, policy never entered into his thoughts; but he was honest because he could not be otherwise. His soul was honest; and as for lying, he loathed it as he would loathe a viper. Nothing could tempt him to be untruthful. In fact, he recoiled as if by instinct from everything mean and deceitful. What teaching he had received, or what influences had surrounded him during his early life, we have never been able to gather. He kept himself mostly to himself, and was silent about the past. Year by year he moved along the even tenour of his way, ever ready to do a kindly deed when opportunity presented itself, but never thrusting himself where he felt he might not be wanted. He had a perfect horror of appearing to be better than he really was; and it was thought that that was his chief reason why he never made any profession of religion.

      About three o'clock Joe got up, and after partaking of a substantial meal, wended his way to the neighbourhood of Copperas Hill. After turning several sharp corners, he found himself in a small court containing about half a dozen houses. Before one of the doors he paused for a moment, then raised his stick, and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat. The door was instantly opened by a woman who had evidently reached her threescore years and ten. Yet she appeared hale and strong for her age, and though poorly, was yet tidily attired.

      "Well, ye are a stranger," was her greeting. "I'm verra glad to see 'e, though."

      "An' I'm glad to see you, Betty."

      "Well, come tha in. What's i' tha wind?"

      "Nowt much, Betty; but what thar is consarns you as much as me."

      "Well, out wi' it, Joe," said Betty, as soon as Joe had seated himself. "No trouble, I 'ope?"

      "No, not that I knows on; but could 'e make room 'ere for a couple o' lodgers – little 'uns, mind you – children, on'y 'bout so high?" holding out his hand.

      "Well, what an idear, to be sure! What are ye a-dreamin' on?"

      "Your old man," said Joe solemnly, "was my mate for mony a year, an' a good man he wur; an' if from that fur-off country he can see what's doin' 'ere, he'd be mightily pleased for 'e to do, Betty, what I'm a-axin' o' yer."

      "But I dunno that I quite understand," said Betty; "explain your meanin' a bit more."

      And Joe, in a solemn voice, told the story of little Nell and her brother Benny. "It mebbe, Betty," he said, "they're the Lord's little 'uns. I'm none o' the Lord's mysel'. I've tried to find 'im; but He winna be found o' me. I'm none o' the elect. I've settled that for more'n twenty year now. But if these bairns are the Lord's, we mustna turn 'em away."

      "All bairns are the Lord's," said Betty; but Joe only shook his head, and sat gazing into the fire.

      Before he left, however, it was settled that a bed should be made for the children in the corner under the stairs, which would be near the fire also. For this they were to pay a penny per night.

      "We mustna make paupers o' them, you know, Betty," was Joe's remark.

      It was also agreed that she should do what washing and mending the children's clothes needed, for which they were to pay also, if they could afford it. "If not," said Joe, "I'll make it square wi' you, Betty."

      Punctually at six o'clock the children put in an appearance at Joe's hut. They had had but poor luck during the day, and Benny did not feel nearly so courageous as he had felt two days before. The prospect of sleeping night after night underneath a boat was not so inviting as he had imagined it would be; besides, there was the fear that their hiding-place might be discovered, and that even this poor shelter might be taken away from them at any time.

      He did not confide his fears to Nelly; he felt that it would be cruel to do so; and she – whatever she may have felt – never uttered a single word of complaint. She knew that "her Benny" had enough to bear, and she would not add to his burden.

      Benny had been very much puzzled at Joe Wrag's manner in the morning, and had wondered much during the day "what he 'ad been a-turnin' over in his noddle." He was desperately afraid that Joe would try to persuade him and Nelly to return to their home, or even insist upon their doing so; and rather than do that, he felt that he would lose Joe's friendship and warm fireside into the bargain.

      Joe was looking very abstractedly into the grate when they came up to the fence, and for a moment they watched his rugged face with the firelight playing upon it. But Benny, who could read his father's face pretty cleverly, declared to himself that "he could make nowt out o' Joe's."

      As usual, Joe made room for Benny in his little hut; but to-night he took little Nelly very tenderly on his knee, and stroked her long flaxen hair with his hard rough hand, muttering to himself the while, "Purty little hangel; I reckon she's one o' the Lord's elect."

      Benny wondered for a long time when Joe was going to say something that he could understand; but somehow to-night he did not like to disturb him by asking questions. Nelly, on the contrary, was far away again from the cold and dingy streets, and the ceaseless roar of the busy town, and was wandering in imagination through sunny meadows where the turf was soft and the grass was green. She fancied she heard the music of purling streams, and the songs of happy birds in the leafy trees that waved their branches over her. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers that she had heard of, but never seen, and weariness and cold she felt no more.

      The voice of Joe banished the beautiful vision from the glowing grate, and the child wondered if ever it would become a reality